


A Study In Cas

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Human Castiel, Pre-Slash, Season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: Cas called so Dean came. Miles away from the Bunker, months after Dean's reluctant eviction of the newly fallen angel, the two friends become partners in what could be their last case together before Cas moves on with the new life he's made for himself.





	1. Postcards

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge, huuuge thanks to my best bud, [tco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tco). This fic would never exist without your support and tender buttkicking. You're the best.
> 
> You can find the cool art made for this fic [here](http://deanirae.tumblr.com/post/159328036613/art-for-castiel-big-bang-by-babybluecas-summary).
> 
> This story was written for [Castiel BigBang Challenge 2017](http://castielbigbang.tumblr.com).

Each phone call from Cas sounds like a postcard. A cardboard piece too small for confessions, too big for silence. Just enough for a few muttered words that he could have as well scribbled out on his knee between sips of watered down coffee from a vending machine.

“I’ve passed through the state line, the weather’s really hot. I’m fine,” is all he’ll ever say about his hitchhike. Like he’s on a self-discovery road trip across the States, taking pictures of Grand Canyon and the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine, snaps of greasy burgers and dead crows on the roadsides.

Not like he’s on the exile.

His voice—the low timbre that has lost its gravel when his throat spilled out his Grace—falls so painfully plain. There’s no despair, no contentment in it. He sounds fine, always, and utterly so. As if the fine is an armor: against Dean’s concern, against the scorching sun of early summer. Against the whole shitty mess Dean put him in.

“I told you I’m fine.”

Sometimes Dean wishes those phone calls were actual postcards, just so he wouldn’t have to hear that tone. And they’d give him the names of towns Cas passed through, something tangible; a trail he could trace across the map.

All he gets are timestamps of the answered calls, time adding up.

 

“It’s been pouring rain all day. I think something died in this motel room. I can’t wait to move on.”

Dean cracks a joke to that and opens the weather report. The fifth of June, day eleventh. Half of the east has been on the brink of a flood.

Cas doesn’t find the joke funny at all.

“Need more money?” Dean asks. “I could wire you some.”

“No, I’m good.”

“Need anything? Just say and–”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean pulls the microphone away from his lips so his frustration doesn’t get tangled into the wires. And then, before he opens his mouth again, there comes the “how are you and Sam?” And that’s it, there’s no getting anything more out of Cas after that. He tried, every time.

Sometimes Dean wishes these phone calls were actual postcards because then he wouldn’t have to answer.

For now the only answer he’s got is the same old song: “I’m peachy, but Sam’s still not up to speed. The trials really got him good.” He should have recorded it on a tape: press play, sound semi-honest. Maybe he’s not that much better at this than Cas. “No news on the angels.”

He throws in a story from the latest case for a good measure.

 

That’s how they go about the whole communication thing. Every few days, a new postcard:

“Lake Michigan is magnificent. I saw it coming to existence, but there’s something about hum— I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

Dean puts a mental pin somewhere on the shore of the lake. It’s not that far away.

“I got a lift from a woman in so much pain.” Cas would have taken that pain away if he could, Dean knows. That’s the guy Cas is. “She said she was going to Canada to see Aurora Borealis.”

Dean thinks maybe Cas should have gone too.

“I’m starting to miss the fields.”

The fields are right here, Cas, Dean craves to say but dares not. He ordered Cas to go, he never told him to try and leave the fucking continent. It’s been only two weeks and it might be the calls or it might be the guilt or maybe something else entirely, but…Dean’s got things that he’s starting to miss too.

“There was an angel slaughter on the outskirts of New York City.”

“Are you–?”

“Yes, I’m alright, I got here a day after that.”

“Should we–?”

“No, don’t come, there’s no point. There’s nothing left to investigate. Nothing a human can do. Unless—?”

“Still nothing.”

Dean grows restless after that one. Should he come anyway, despite what Cas says? And despite what Ezekiel says. Not that Dean could oppose the angel. But if even Cas, the “I want to help the angels” Cas says there’s nothing they could do—none of them—maybe there really is no point. So they don’t go.

 

“I ran out of East. The ocean’s a lot like a lake. You can’t even see how much bigger it is with these eyes.”

Turn around, there’s a lot of West left to travel and home waits half-way, Dean wants to say, but doesn’t. There’s no home waiting for Cas, is there? All Dean can offer him is, “Sam’s still too weak.”

Cas barely ever calls after that. Settled, hasn’t he? There’re no more postcards left for Dean. There’s only “I’m fine. How are you and Sam?”

 

Three weeks since the last call wear Dean down at a steady pace. He could try and call Cas first, but that’s not how payphones work. Cas simply hasn’t got new landscapes to speak of, that is all. Nothing he could say that wouldn’t have Cas in it and those Cas doesn’t do.

 

It’s one of the last scolding afternoons of the year, Dean’s phone finally rings with the familiar tune and an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. Dean lifts the cell to his ear, breath withheld—doesn’t let it out until Cas’s even tone comes out of the speaker.

“Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean can’t help smiling into his phone. “How are—”

“Dean,” Cas cuts him off with the last words Dean expects to hear, “I need you to come.”


	2. 'Cause You Called

Gravel crunches beneath the wheels as the Impala rolls off the sideway onto the parking lot. There are only two cars besides her there and a whole lot of free space, but Dean pulls up right by the entry, hiding in the shadow of the building. Way to the left, the wind swings the tired sign in its hinges: “Dana’s Diner” it says in faded blue.

“Is she a redhead?” Dean joked on Saturday, words hardly coming out through his tightened throat. Cas didn’t get it, of course, didn’t chuckle on the other end of the line. He just carried on, like Dean never said a word.

Dean didn’t expect more, how could he? At least now he knows he’s at the right place—if not at the right time. Not that there are that many diners in a town like this.

He turns off the engine and sinks back in the seat. Before the windshield, the gray plaster flaked off the wall, revealing a patch of bricks and cement, the crack in it crawls all the way to the corner, threatening to bare even more. Dean doesn’t let his eyes follow the black line, he keeps them trained on the red wound right ahead, fingers in his hair, breaths slow and deep.

He needs to unload his heavy chest, somehow, before he can step out of the car. It’s been that way a lot, lately. He should have gotten used to it by now. Or find a good technique of letting it go. But the only thing he’s learned in this damned life is making it worse. The thinking, mainly. Replaying every single detail over and over. Like his skull is a fucking echo chamber and he keeps turning the volume up.

His own words from that evening aren’t even the loudest of it all. They sank quickly, like a stone, gone as soon as they hit the water’s surface. It’s their aftermath: the eyes grown wide with betrayal, lips quivering with a plea, words bitten down. The ripples. They keep carrying on. After all this time, they might’ve just grown into a tsunami.

But he won’t find that out if he keeps up the game of chicken, lets more time pass him by. It’s been four minutes of him sitting pointlessly in one spot. Just past half an hour since he started running late to their appointment. On the other side of the run-down wall, Cas’s foot taps against the tiles in an impatient rhythm as his eyes comb the road spread before the window. His cup floods with the third refill of black coffee, heartbeat speeding with each sip, nervous system growing more alert.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Cas has become the type to call decaf coffee. Dean wouldn’t know. He shouldn’t care. It’s just coffee. Cas can take it double latte, three sugars, vanilla, and sprinkles on top, and it’d still be the littlest of Dean’s concerns.

And yet, he cares. He cares ‘cause he never brewed three types of coffee for Cas, poured it into as many cups as needed for Cas to mix it with cream and sugar and whiskey just to see how he likes it best. He never got to see him wince at the bitter taste dripping on his tongue and down his throat. All he did was give Cas five washed out t-shirts and two old pairs of jeans, wrap it all up in a bow, together with a fake credit card, and left him on the main road out of town.

Thank God Cas gave up without a fight. And curse him for that, too—for folding his shitty jacket, donning the backpack and going off, like he’d never belonged there anyway. And he hadn’t, had he? Never once had Dean given him a warm welcome at home. Never gave him much of a welcome at all.

A movement, to the left, on the periphery of Dean’s vision makes him twitch in his seat. The pale jacket, the dark hair—for a split second, it’s Cas. And then it’s not: just a man, strolling down the pavement, toward the diner. The beige garment is too short for the familiar overcoat and— That one is gone for good, anyway.

The man disappears behind the corner of the building, enters the diner. Makes Cas’s head snap up to the entrance just to disappoint him. Because the patron Cas has been waiting for is stalling. Fucking coward, isn’t he?

Dean shuts his eyes, his fingers rub a thin veil of fog into them. He won’t be any readier. He could have had it past him by now—breaking the ice part, at least. Is that even how it’s called in a case like this? When the person on the other side of the frozen wall is the closest thing to a best friend he’s ever had? Probably—if someone’s as good at fucking things up as Dean is.

He blinks at himself in the rearview mirror. He’s made a mess of his hair, but that’s an easy fix. So are his t-shirt and plaid, wrinkled on the long drive. So he fixes them: with fingers he combs every strand of hair into its place, straightens each crease ‘till it’s as smooth as the fabric will let him.

At last, out of ideas on what else to fix—and out of things that are fixable, at all—he pushes the door.

 

Dana’s Diner has a small bell above the entrance, just like most diners do. Bells like that have a nasty habit of announcing each new patron as they come in. They grab the heads of the waiting, each ring pushing them closer to the verge of patience. Those bells, they suck for those whose date isn’t coming and they suck for those who don’t want the attention just yet.

Dean’s in luck today, though. Above him, the ringing’s killed off as soon as it comes to life. A cracked heart, must be. Or the body. It doesn’t matter, as long as the damage buys Dean time before the eyes, the blue ones, fall on him. Gives him a chance to find those blue eyes first.

They’re still blue, of course, that much cannot change. However dimmed and broken they become, Cas can’t switch them for a different pair. All Cas has got left is styling hair, buying clothes, just to try and fit a little bit better into the skin he’s stuck in. Just like real people do.

Dean’s heart twitches—a familiar twitch. Exhilarated, in a cruel way. The same kind that haunted Dean the day he brought Cas to the Bunker, in the spring. The one that whispered of missing wings and sticking around, at last.

How did that go?

One step at a time, Dean moves from the door, eyes passing over each face around the few occupied tables. The scrawny emo kid by the window, with his smoothie and his giggly date; two bored children and their parents wishing they were anywhere but here; the local branch of hell’s angels right behind them.

He does a double take at each of the bulky guys, casual enough for them not to take notice of him. At the mere thought of stumbling upon Cas’s face among them—the leather, the tatts, the roaring beast sitting outside—Dean bites his lower lip. He hardly holds back his disappointment as he runs out of the bikers.

Just a few more tables left to check, deeper into the diner. Stroll still lazy, he moves his eyes to the closest one. It hosts someone chatting lively, but the patron’s obscured by the pink-clad waitress. Her notebook hangs in her palm at her side, her fingers are wrapped around the back of an empty seat.

There’s nothing but a patch of dark blue fabric peeking out from behind her. Dean could swear it’s got a pattern of reindeers on it, but he’s too far to be certain. Christmas in September; looks like someone’s beaten the shopping malls to it.

He takes a step to the side for a better perspective. The wince twisting his face comes in involuntarily. There it is, in all of its blinding glory: an ugly sweater. And its victim with a pair of blue eyes.

They cannot be blue, not from such distance, but Dean could still swear they are. Because they are the right eyes in the right face. Even if framed with a fringe of dark waves, half-hidden under the thick beard. What a shame the Christmas sweater takes the new image from hot to sad.

There’s nothing sad about Cas, himself, though. No hunched shoulders, no paleness, no nervous peeking at the clock. He still hasn’t even noticed Dean’s already there, too focused on the waitress before him. One arm thrown over the back of the booth, chin tipped up, lips curled in a soft smile, he sits there relaxed. So at ease it’s alien.

Then the woman says something so incredibly hilarious Cas’s face cannot contain it. His mouth spreads so wide it bares his teeth and gums, nose crinkles, net of deep crow’s feet crawls around the narrow cracks of his eyes. Dean blinks twice, just to make sure—is it still Cas that he’s looking at? The Cas that called him two days ago: monotone voice, simply fine? The Cas that he knew months ago?

Nothing seems right about it, about that smile. Dean never got to make Cas beam like that.

“Can I help you?”

Dean’s head turn toward the source of the voice. There’s a round-faced woman standing behind the counter. She’s got a dish towel in her hand and suspicion in her brow.

“You’re lookin’ a little lost there,” she points out.

She couldn’t be more right.

“No uh, I’ve a—I’m meeting someone here.”

Dean’s hand makes a wave toward Cas all on its own. When the woman’s eyes follow, a smile blooms on her face.

“Oh, you’re here for Harry, aren’t you? That writer?”

The foreign name takes a beat to snap into place. “I guess I am…that.”

“Well, then, go to him!” she hurries Dean. “He’s been waiting quite a while.”

She shoots him a scolding glare and starts cleaning the countertop before he can offer her his polite smile. He doesn’t have much of a choice now, does he? Though it’s not like he’d had any choice at all.

Dean doesn’t get to make the full turn when a salve of laughter reaches him. It’s low, guttural, definitely not belonging to the waitress, although it’s coming from that table. It’s cut promptly, soon as Dean’s eyes fall on Cas, again. Or rather—when Cas’s find him.

He nods to Dean, a barely there movement, as the last of the smile flees his face. That’s much more like Cas now, shoulders squared, lips—a thin line. Somehow, that’s not better at all.

Dean, finally, recalls how to move his legs as Cas turns back to the waitress. He hands her a few dollars from his pocket and matches them with a wink—an honest to god wink—before she steps away.

“Dean,” Cas greets him with just that, the simple syllable of his name, no hellos.

And Dean means to say “Hi, Cas,” to that, he really does. But as he slumps on the seat opposite of the man with his palms folded in his lap, two pools of blue on his face, and a whole lot of kissing reindeers on his chest, what comes out of Dean’s mouth is:

“A little early for Christmas, don’t you think?”

No wonder he never got Cas grinning.

“It’s thick,” he responds. His tone, serious with a side of done, leaves no place for a further discussion of his fashion choices.

“Okay.”

The quiet that befalls is heavy: not the pleasant silence of the calms after the storms, post-hunt lingering in the motel rooms, late night burgers in other small town diners, long-longed rests in the fire-lit caves of the Purgatory. This one has something of a brick wall in its structure.

Cas isn’t even looking at him. His eyes dropped to the fading smoke from his coffee and remain there as his long fingers curl around the cup. Good, because Dean can’t take his eyes off of every inch of Cas. Off the ragged thumbnail nabbing at the ceramic’s edge, the chest, rising and falling underneath all that wool, the single silver hair in his dark beard, curled right by the corner of his lips.

The lips grow restless briefly, shaping up to spit out words, but before any come, Dean opens his stupid mouth.

“I do dig the beard.”

One complement for one critique—is that how it works? It’s honest, for what it’s worth.

“Thank you,” Cas says, takes a second too long with drawing a breath to add something more.

“Suits you,” Dean cuts him off again, curses himself mentally and mouths an apology.

A faint shadow of a smile plays on Cas’s lips, so at least the dose of awkwardness didn’t go to waste. This time, Cas pauses right on the verge of speaking, just to make sure he won’t be interrupted yet again. Dean motions for him and, at last, he blurts out:

“I ordered you coffee.”

Dean couldn’t hold back a chuckle if he tried.

“Thanks.”

Cas pulls up the corners of his mouth in a courteous smile before sinking it in his own cup. He takes slow sips, takes his time, as the cracks in the ice begin to seal. Like he’s bent on making this as hard as can be for Dean, not that Dean didn’t deserve it.

“So,” Dean won’t let the unbearable silence pile up again, “how have you been?”

He doesn’t count on much, he just hopes for something. This time Cas can’t dodge the question, not like he has each time over the phone. This time Dean’s got him right there, staring right into his eyes, not just muttering the worn out line over the wire.

And yet.

“I’ve got a case,” Cas replies, setting the cup down, as if it’s the only thing that matters. Not whether his feet hurt from travel, not whether the nightmares keep stealing his sleep, not whether he’s moved on or is still holding onto the phantom pains in his shoulder blades. “A haunting.”

“I know that,” Dean assures him, hardly able to hide his irritation. “That’s why you brought me here, remember?”

A case, that’s all, just a ghost that is too much to handle for Cas. That was the deal from the start: were it not for the restless dead, Dean wouldn’t be here—Cas would have never asked. What kind of flowers spell out this sort of thank you?

Unless—

“That _is_ why you called me, Cas, righ—?”

“Yes,” Cas says, not letting the implication of Dean’s question take form. The implication that maybe, just maybe, Cas didn’t really need Dean’s help, at all. “I’ve been wondering whether its sudden activity might have something to do with the Fall.”

Dean’s eyebrows snap together. “That when it started? Could be many things.”

“Could be.” Cas nods. “And yeah, possibly around that time, though, Alicia wasn’t sure because it started subtly.” He downs the last of his coffee, pushes the cup aside. With his elbows on the table, he leans in closer, fingers interlocked beneath his chin. “Have you noticed any changes in the patterns or behaviors lately?”

The inventory of their recent cases takes no time at all. It’s easier to keep tabs on Zeke on lock than off chasing nasties. Even if that’s just a lie Dean tells himself to sleep better with one eye open. Still, he’d probably have one or fifteen more alarms going off in his head if the classic nightmares went off the chart.

“Nothing that caught my attention.”

Cas hums to himself, chewing on Dean’s report. “I suppose that’s a good thing,” he declares at last, pulling away, shoulder loose once again as he leans against the back of the booth.

“Yeah, you don’t say.” Dean mutters. “Vengeful spirits going haywire more than usually is the last thing we need right now.”

He bites his tongue all but too late. Way to invite the questions, isn’t it? How’s the entire queue of issues going? Metatron? Abaddon? Any news on how to bring the angels home? Have you looked at all?

Yet, Cas remains quiet but for a brief agreement. He looks away, to the waitress working behind the counter, up at the clock hanging on the wall. There’s still time until dusk.

“So,” Dean draws out the syllable to regain Cas’s attention, “Alicia, the chatty waitress,” he counts, “you’ve made friends, huh?”

“Yes.”

Dean gives him a moment to elaborate, but that’s not on the menu today.

“How long have you stayed in this place?” he tries again.

“A while.”

One deep inhale, slow exhale. “Come on, Cas, are we seriously doing this?”

Cas’s focus returns to Dean at that.

“Doing what?”

There’s no playful smirk on his lips, no confused wedge in his brow. And if there’s anger behind those blue eyes, if there’s hatred, pain—they’re perfectly concealed.

And what does Dean even say to that? How does he point to the parade of the elephants in the room without dropping to his knees and chanting _mea culpas_?

He’s sure gonna try, hoping Cas won’t send him off before he’s outlived his usefulness here.

He opens his mouth. “Alright, I—”

“Here’s your coffee,” the woman’s voice cuts him off.

The waitress. Coffee, right, he almost forgot about that. She puts the cup down before him with reddened cheeks and an apologetic smile.

Dean thanks her, fingers reaching to the paper cup. On the go is not usually what you order sitting in. When he looks to Cas for an explanation, the man is no longer sat before him. He doesn’t grace Dean with an explanation until he’s done saying goodbye to the waitress.

“You were late thirty-eight minutes, Dean,” he says, at last, motioning for Dean to join him outside. “The library’s closing soon.”

The door shuts behind him by the time Dean’s done paying for the coffee. The bitter fragrance fills Dean’s nostrils as he treads back between the tables. Saved by the beverage. Just Dean’s luck.

 

 

Indeed, there is no vehicle waiting for Cas outside. Neither a Harley nor a Santa’s sleigh with Rudolph in the leading pair. For the lack of the latter Dean’s certainly thankful. The woolen reindeers are more than enough. In the orange light of the late summer sun, the sweater paints an even more miserable picture.

“How far’s the library?” Dean pulls out the car keys as he passes by the man.

“Just a few blocks. We can walk if you want to,” Cas offers. “You’ll have time to finish your coffee.”

He hasn’t even tasted the steaming liquid yet, the prickling inside of his palm tells him it wouldn’t be the brightest idea. He’s definitely not throwing away an entire cup just because Cas couldn’t bother to warn him about their exact plans.

“Touché.”

They halt halfway through the parking lot, as Cas nods to the opposite direction. Dean spins the keys around his index finger. There’s no harm in leaving her here, the spot’s nice and shaded. He’ll get her on the way back to Cas’s friend. He drops his hand to pocket the keys but stops mid-movement.

“Nope,” he snaps, shaking his head like a pony with anger management issues. “I— I can’t do this. This is wrong.”

The confusion drawn on Cas’s face is the strongest emotion he’s given him today.

“Walking?”

“Yes, walking!” Dean bursts out, glad no one’s around to draw weird conclusions before he provides the context with voice turned low and gestures turned up to eleven. “Walking anywhere. With You. Wearing this atrocity!”

He tried. He really tried.

“It’s a sweater, Dean.” Cas remains unbearably calm, for the contrast.

“No, it’s not _a_ sweater. It’s an ugly sweater,” he explains with the highest possible dose of emphasis on the key word. “And it’s called that for a reason. It’s barely— _barely_ —acceptable on the Christmas Day. It is September.”

Cas pets his beard for mental support in dealing for Dean’s crap and gives out a prolonged sigh. “Well, I don’t carry a change of clothes around.”

Dean purses his lips. It was never in the plan for this afternoon to ponder on whether Cas is or isn’t naked underneath the sweater. He bites his tongue before the stupid question slips out. A gentleman should probably buy guy a dinner first.

It’s probably the cold, anyway. If sixty-six degrees and no wind can be called that. Still, the drop was sudden and it must be one of the coolest days since Cas fell. Who knows how long it takes to regulate the brand new temperature receptors.^

“Good thing you’ve got me, then.” Dean shoots him a grin and crosses the distance to the Impala in a few leaps.

He might have not packed much for a quick hunt, but he’s not the type of guy to cross half a country unprepared. He sets the cup on top of the car and goes straight for the trunk, finds his hoodie shoved into the back. Dean’s trusted companion, in sickness and in long nights spent in the car. Warm, comfy and, most importantly, a Louis Vuitton compared to Cas’s current attire.

Dean pulls the gray cloth out and throws it to Cas. “Catch!”

Cas unfolds it in one move, then slower goes on to inspecting it. He checks the hood, the breadth and the thickness.

“I suppose this will do,” Cas murmurs, sliding his hold to the hem, slipping the thumbs in, ready to pull it over his head.

“Dude!” Dean snaps, getting a heatstroke from just imagining Cas in all those thick layers. “You are gonna take the sweater off first, right?”

With bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Cas nods, as if he’s only just realized that is an option. He puts the sweatshirt on the hood of the Impala, his fingers linger on the fabric. His eyes trace the line from the cloth, through his palm, to the rim of his sweater. They flick to Dean, too, briefly, easy to miss. Then back to his own palms.

At last, he reaches to the collar of his sweater. “Turn around.”

Dean lifts both eyebrows at the odd request, but Cas freezes in his position, waiting for Dean to comply. Naked underneath it is, then. Dean turns as asked, backs of his legs pressed to the bumper, palms pushed deep into his pockets. He fixes his eyes on the passing cloud with a strong resolve not to peak, not even to check if he’s right. It’s not like he’s never seen Cas half-naked and the guy has never exactly been shy, like when Dean aided him in carving up his skin with a cardboard knife.

“Why are we even going to the library?” Dean asks, just to return his own train of thoughts from an uncomfortable route. “Research, I know,” he adds before Cas can say it, making Dean rephrase and start all over again. “You haven’t found the culprit yet, have you?”

“I have not,” Cas replies.

“Have you tried the internet?”

“No, Dean, I forgot I’m in the twenty-first century,” Cas snarks. Dean can practically see his eyeroll conveyed with the entire body. “I found two deadly incidents but neither fit Alicia’s description,” he explains, then adds with a shift in his tone, “Will you stop complaining now?”

Taking that for a permission to turn, Dean faces Cas in his new-new look. The hoodie, big as it is on Dean, is even bigger on Cas. It sags off his shoulders, stretches down to his thighs. The sleeves that Cas pulled all the way down on his palms reveal only his fingers. Paired with the beard, he looks as cozy and soft as a pile of blankets on a long evening in the fall. Or something.

Dean winks at the changed man. “Sight for sore eyes.”

In his pockets, his palms ball into fists, just to stop the fingers from aching for the feel of Cas’s hair, strands put out of place as Cas pulled the clothes over his head.

“Throw the sweater into the trunk, for now, and let’s go,” Dean says.

They’ve got the pressing matters to attend, first. They can always burn the abomination later.


	3. Storytelling

Remaining coffee splashes in the cup as it hits the bottom of the trashcan. All it gave Dean in the end is numb tongue and a bitter aftertaste that follows him into the library.

From the outside, the building doesn’t differ from the surrounding houses, bar for the sign by the door that is supposed to invite people in. In theory, at least. On the inside, well, there are books, for one thing, though there aren’t that many of them, for a library. They’re all set along the walls, on fuck old, wooden shelves. In the center, there are two old-timey armchairs, a big carpet and a lot of bookless space.

“Tell me I didn’t forget you were scheduled for today, Harry,” a voice greets them  before the door shuts behind their backs.

She’s sitting at the desk, on the left, a woman, old and gray, with her eyes fixed on a book in her hands. As if her cardigan, glasses and the current location didn’t spell out ‘librarian’ clearly enough.

“You didn’t forget, Joanie.” Cas sends the woman’s way his most polite smile, though she can’t appreciate it. “I’m here privately, this time.”

“Have you finished the books already?” she croaks, surprised, slipping a bookmark between the pages. “You must tell me what you thi—” She trails off as soon as her eyes find the other visitor. She puts the book down at once and readjusts her glasses with her wrinkled fingers. “Oh, and who’s your friend?”

Dean’s lips part in his first instinct to take initiative and introduce himself with some name borrowed from a frontman of a rock band. Not an agent, of course, he’s got no badge on him and the town has got no dead bodies lying around. A journalist is always a good second option, small town dwellers are so keen on getting their names in a newspaper. That is unless they’ve got a secret cult going on or what not but, hopefully, that’s not the case.

“This is Dean, my—” Cas beats him to the introduction, hesitates for a barely-there moment—”old acquaintance.”

Dean can’t let his smile fall when there are pleasantries to be exchanged with the librarian lady, Joanie. Harder though is ignoring the dull thump inside his chest, as if something heavy has fallen into it but didn’t bother to occupy the space. Just as Dean’s existence can’t have occupied much of Cas’s thoughts.

Or maybe just his words. It’s just a cover story, Dean knows that. Or, at least, some, currently comatose, part of his brain does. Acquaintance has not once been what Dean is to Cas. A mission, a friend, an enemy. Never a guy to meet in passing, good for chatting about the weather and the sports section of the morning paper.

“Dean’s looking for an inspiration for his book,” Cas goes on explaining, enough confidence in his voice to sell every rehearsed detail of Dean’s temporary life story. If only he’d briefed Dean in beforehand. “and I offered him a look at the archives.”

Behind the glasses, Joanie’s eyes grow wide, her hands clasp together. “Ah, you’re a writer, how marvelous!” she exclaims, nothing short of a little girl in a candy store. She’s out of her chair and right before Dean at once, her movements brimming with vigor unseemly in a woman her age. “We don’t get to host many famous people in our little town, let alone writers! What did you say your name was? I’m sure we’ve got your previous works here. Oh, how embarrassing would it be if we didn’t!”

Watching from his safe spot a few feet away, Cas seems to have a whole lot of fun, while Dean keeps his most courteous smile on and explains to the elated woman that he has not yet published any books, that he’d rather keep the plot of his debut on low, and that, yes, for certain, she’ll be the first to get an advanced copy of the book when it’s done.

Joanie gets nearly to booking him for an author’s evening for the townsfolk, when Cas, graciously, chooses to put him out of his misery. “Joanie, I know you’ll be closing quite soon so if we could—”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Her cheeks, ‘til now flushed with a healthy hue of pink, turn scarlet. “How silly of me to keep babbling on and stop you from doing your work.”

“It’s alright,” Dean assures her, wholeheartedly. This kind of enthusiasm is not easy to come by, especially in his line of work.

Joanie slowly retrieves to her old post at the desk, she turns to Cas, “Harry, dear, you know what is where, you will show Dean around, won’t you?” She flashes an apologetic smile back at Dean. “I’d just keep bothering you if I went with you. But if you need help with anything, I’ll be here.”

“We should be fine, don’t worry,” Cas says. “You go finish that book so you can tell me if it’s worth reading.”

The woman waves a hand at him. “Eh, I’ve read better!” she decides and bares her teeth in a chortle.

Dean follows Cas to the white door sitting between two shelves of books on the opposite end of the room. Behind them, the air carries a thin scent of old paper and dust, just like archives do. The small space is all a clutter of boxes and folders piled up to the low ceiling on steel constructions that in all likeliness pose a health hazard for ye who enter here.

A click of the doorknob snapping into place takes them out of the woman’s earshot. It’s back to just the two of them, Dean and Cas. The old acquaintances and the tar of silence crawling up their ankles. Dean broods with care, in Cas’s footsteps, as they pass through the narrow aisle. Between Cas’s shoulder blades, the hood hangs askew.

“What was that about?” Dean breaks the silence, as they stop, just for the sake of breaking it.

There were so many other questions he could have spat out. He could have prodded deeper about the case or offered to handle the microfilm reader, he could have proposed the best method of skimming through the decades of newspapers with no starting point. He should know better by now than to stick out his elbows or he might end up poking at all the wrong things.

It took Cas long enough to slip both his palms into the pocket on his belly, lace his fingers. He curls up his lip with fondness. “Joanie can get a little excitable sometimes. Please, don’t mind her.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean Joanie. I like her,” Dean admits and rambles on, smart to take the out when he’s offered one. “Though, I’ve just heard her speak more than all the librarians, in my entire life, combined. Christian Kane not included.”

But Cas and his squinty eyes won’t buy it that easily, of course. “Then what did you mean?”

Dean said “a”, already, so he should just spill the rest of the a-word out and make a pathetic fool out of himself. But he swallows it hard, all the way down to the pit of his stomach where it belongs.

“Just the whole know what where and all that, the schedule, the—” he points to Cas’s hands already sorting through the box filled with newspapers preserved on rolls of microfilm. “You work here or something?”

“Or something,” Cas echoes, pulling one package close to his face to read the small print. “Part time,” he adds when Dean remains quiet.

Dean nods, more to himself than to Cas, who doesn’t take his eyes off the boxed rolls. So he’s got a job now. A peaceful, safe job. That’s good. It’ll get him food, it’ll pay the bills. It’ll give him something to get out of bed for when it gets too hard. And it will get hard, it always does. After all Cas is only human.

And a librarian, which seems fitting in a way. A good retirement plan for a warrior like him. Fingertips grazing the corners of yellowed pages, tracing the lettering on the broken spines—that’s what Cas’s new, primordial hands could have been designed for if they were never made for wielding weapons. Now that his sword and his guard are down, when no war remains for him to fight, taking long walks along the shelves of contemporary romances, high fantasies and thrillers isn’t the worst possible fate.

They should be sumerian scrolls, of course. They should be egyptian hieroglyphs scribbled on papyrus. They should be texts as ancient as he is, they should be as filled with majesty and power as Cas is not. He belongs to a different library altogether. The one Dean never let him belong in.

But he will, eventually. Soon. A month or two and Sam will stand on his own feet, just a little bit longer and Ezekiel will be gone. And Cas will come home. He’ll drop the reindeers, the new friends and this whole, temporary town, and he’ll come home.

For now, this must do.

“You like it?” Dean can’t help asking, as he flips through the dust-coated folders on the nearest shelf. “Working here?”

“May fifty-three,” Cas replies.

Dean fails to find the relation of the words to the question. “Huh?” He turns on his heel, his eyes fall on the back of Cas’s head, the strands of hair clinging to his neck.

“That’s when Alicia’s house was built,” Cas clarifies, shifting closer to the big machine sitting on one of the desks, his swift fingers unpack the roll of the microfilm. “We could start there and go forward until we find something.”

Dean murmurs his agreement, watching Cas work the reader. Or try to work it, his fingers tapping against the control panel as he considers his next move. He thrusts his thumb into one of the buttons, then another one, but nothing happens. He goes manual, prying the glass part open with his thumbnail, which at least produces a result.

“Not part of the job, huh?”

“I didn’t have an occasion to use it yet,” Cas admits. “Should I call Joanie or can you—?”

“Yeah, it’s easy.” Dean takes the roll from Cas and moves into his spot. “Come on, I’ll show you. We’ve a lot of switching those ahead.”

 

The old wood moans under Dean’s weight, but the desk is solid enough not to skew or dent as he jumps back on it. He sets another bunch of folders right next to his thigh, takes the first one, as per usual—unmarked. He flips the pages, one by one, scanning the print of each document for the keywords: murder, fatality, death. It’s easy once you train your eyes to catch those and his eyes had three decades of training for that.

Cas’s eyes, however, the new ones, haven’t gotten even three hours of such training. They probably wouldn’t make it through, not in one sitting. It hasn’t been so long that they’ve been sitting here, Cas’s palm never leaves his face. His knuckles bore into his eyes, his wrist wipes the drops of perspiration off his brow. But it’s the dust that gives him away the most, the thin trails stretching behind the legs of his chair, his face inching closer and closer to the screen.

“Any chance the ghost is a parrot?” Dean mumbles, shutting the folder and drops it on the pile of the done with and forgotten. “I’ll never manage to wash the dust off my fingerprints,” he complains, rubbing his daft fingertips together. “Wanna trade places?”

“You should try soap,” Cas deadpans, switching the slide and ignoring the question altogether.

“Never thought of that,” Dean mutters, slipping off the desk. He needs just a minute. A little bit of stretching: neck, back, cracking joints in his fingers.

Cas’s eyes snap to the clock above him. “Dean, we’ve less than half an hour until the library closes and I’m still in the sixties,” Cas chastises him as if that part was on Dean, but his voice verges rather on an anxiety-riddled whine. So there exists a crack in this calm and composed sculpture.

“Would probably go faster if you didn’t check the time every five seconds,” Dean retorts, bending down to peek at the screen over Cas’s head. “Couldn’t you have begun sooner? It’s not like you needed me here for this.”

“I wasn’t here earlier today,” Cas explains, eyes glued to the police reports column. “I was busy.”

“Alright, what about the last few days? You found out about it, like, last week?”

Cas gives out an annoyed sigh. “On Friday afternoon. It was weekend after that. Libraries usually close on weekends.”

Dean bites his lip and his tongue. He’s got a simple solution to that particular problem in mind, but Cas might not appreciate anything containing the words breaking and entering. And it’s two days too late, anyway, so all Dean can say is, “That’s fair.”

“That’s why I tried the internet. To no avail,” Cas adds, quieter. “I—” he starts, but changes his mind and keeps on reading. Or tries to. Eventually, he opens his mouth again, speaks just above his breath, “I told Alicia she must hold on for a little longer.” His finger slips off the button, his hand drops to his side. Where there was a crack, now grows a rubble, with the shoulders rolled in, spine hooked, with the head hung low. “It started hurting her.” He lifts his palm to run it through his hair, curl the fingers into claws, twisted around the sun-kissed locks. ”I should have known sooner.”

Dean doesn’t need to see his face, Cas’s voice, his words, his despair say it all. No matter who Alicia is to Cas, a close friend or…something closer—Dean knows first-hand what it’s like to let people down.

“Hey, man,” he says, putting all of his optimism into his voice and all of his support into the grip on Cas’s shoulder. “I promise you, we’ll get that bastard. Tonight.”

Cas takes a few heartbeats to regain his composure. He sits up tight, rubs his face and clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says in the same, old voice, the unshaken one, only a little bit warmer than before. “You’re right.”

“F’course I am,” Dean cheers, patting Cas’s back. “My turn, now. Skedaddle.”

Cas leaves the chair with hesitation, but his spine thanks him for it, as soon as he throws his arms out to stretch a bit before moving on to the files. Dean’s spine, too, appreciates the switch, as soon as Dean leans against the back of the chair.

There’s nothing but the rustle of paper and hiss of the machine hanging in the dry air, their tired exhales slip in between the sounds every now and then. Click of a pressed doorknob, all too loud in their quiet, makes Cas jump in his spot and slip off the desk like a kid caught sitting on a windowsill. The thin line of his lips pales to white.

“I hope you don’t mind me, boys,” Joanie calls from the other end of the room. “How is it going? You’ve been sitting here for so long!”

Cas shoots Dean a nearly begging look before Joanie’s face appears between the shelves. Dean responds with a wink: easy, there are still options.

“There are so many fascinating things I would need a week to get through it all,” Dean lies, hoping he sounds at least half as convincing as he needs to. Frankly, it’s hard to find a small town more boring than this one, and they’ve got an ex-angel in it.

“Fascinating?” Joanie laughs. “This isn’t New York, my dear.”

“Well, it’s exactly what I need for my novel,” Dean ensures.

“I’m glad to hear that!” The woman’s face brightens and Dean feels like a complete asshole for blatant lies and playing on her emotions like this. “I just came here to give Harry the key,” she says, outstretching her hand to Cas. “I’m leaving in a minute, but you can close and open tomorrow morning, can’t you?”

Cas stares at Joanie’s palm for a second as if she was giving him vial of his grace, not a piece of metal.

“Of course, I’m sorry for the problem.” He relaxes visibly the moment he wraps his fingers around the key.

“Not a problem at all,” Joanie replies, peeking at the screen and not even trying to hide it. “Sixties?” She gasps. “Is it going to be some cold war espionage story?” Dean opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he can speak. “No, no, I know you don’t want to tell, but I can’t help being curious!” Quite ostensively, she moves away from the machine and decides to change the topic to…something Dean did not expect to hear. “You know, Dean, our Harry is quite a storyteller himself!”

Dean surely heard that wrong. “A storyteller?”

Panic gleams on Cas’s face, “Joanie, please, Dean doesn’t want to hear about that.”

Dean laces his fingers. “No, no, go on, Joanie.” Isn’t this delightful, a chance to hear a single thing about the new Cas, at last. And a bit comparable to the childhood photo album slideshow, at that. “What stories does our Harry tell?”

Cas gives out a defeated sigh.

“I’m sure Harry told you about his workshops with children?” she begins, but from Dean’s face she reads he knows nothing about those. “We have this program that aims to entice creativity in the little ones,” she explains, “and Harry makes up those incredible stories, about angels and wars and the whole of history. What an imagination he has! I told him he should start writing fantasy books.”

Dean enjoys the information very well.

“I’d sure love to hear some of those stories, one day, Harry,” he teases, flashing his teeth at Cas, who doesn’t even look at him. “Alright,” Dean claps his hands. He still hasn’t forgotten why he’s here and a better opportunity he won’t get, “you know, Joanie, for this big favor you just got me, I’ll tell you something about this book of mine. So, it’s going to be this really dark story of love and death and—and betrayal in a small town. You know, crime, accidents, and so on. Has anything like that happened here, say last few decades?”

“Decades? Well, that’s a long time.” She presses a finger to her lip, knits her eyebrows. “There were some car crashes, for sure. Let me think. Oh!” she exclaims, “how could I forget Robert! He was always such a good kid, spent a lot of time here, in the library. There was a robbery, someone broke into his house. He was just trying to protect his wife, he grabbed a gun and shoot that criminal.”

“Killed him?”

“Yes. In self-defense, of course, but it ruined his life. And he was going to make it big, but after that, he was never the same,” she ends on a heavy note. “Is any of this helpful?”

“Yes, good stuff, good stuff,” Dean says. “What was his last name? And the robbers?”

“Johnson, Robert Johnson. And the robber…Rowlins? Rolins? Something like that.”

Cas and Dean exchange looks.

“The Johnsons? Isn’t that where Alicia Bane lives?”

“Why yes, indeed. The Johnsons moved out soon after and the house stood empty until Alicia moved in. Some would even say the ghost was haunting Robert,” she adds in a whisper. “But of course that had to be his guilt.”

Dean springs to the box of microfilms. “When was it exactly?”

“Had to be in the fall, my son was just starting school, so that would be,” Joanie considers the date, doing the math in her head, “nineteen seventy-three.”

Cas takes the current roll out of the reader while Dean looks for the right microfilm, places it in, flips through the frames. Cas stands right behind his chair, watching the pages change.

“Got it,” Dean says, at last, but Cas’s eyes are already there, his fingers wrapped around the back of the chair.

“Past midnight…dead on arrival…local cemetery,” Cas mutters as he reads, the smell of his shampoo fills Dean’s nostrils, the heat of his body pressing harder with each line successfully distracts Dean from reading.

“Do you need glasses?”

Cas jumps away like he’s been burned, the air feels cold on Dean’s skin where the warmth disappeared.

“Of course not, my eyesight is perfect,” Cas blurts out with a suspicious dose of self-defense in it.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Joanie chimes in from somewhere behind them, voice ragged from exertion. “Harry’s so stubborn.”

Dean shoots Cas a goofy grin. Busted.

“I don’t need glasses,” Cas protests, moving to help Joanie take down some dusted volumes from the top shelf.

“I just remembered, Johnson and Rowlins graduated the same year as my late husband. I don’t think this will be useful to you, but—”

She drops a yearbook on the desk. Class of nineteen sixty-nine. She flicks the pages until she gets to the picture of Robert Johnson: square jaw and terrible mustache. A few pages further they find Jack Rowins: narrow face with a wide smile on.

Cas draws in a breath and nods to Dean. That’s it, that’s who Alicia described. Or maybe who Cas saw, himself, as well. Dean takes pictures of both men, quickly not to let the librarian catch him.

“Joanie, you have been of huge help,” Dean says, slamming the book shut, he walks over to where she took the book from, puts it back in its place. “I’d say we’re good,” he announces, dusting his palms off. “I mean I’m good. I can already feel the inspiration flowing.”

Joanie turns to him, but her face has changed. Her eyebrows drew near, deep lines surrounded her pursed lips. “Is that what inspired you?” she asks, voice no longer cheerful. “I don’t think you were honest with me, Dean.” She lifts her index finger to wave at him like librarians do when someone dares to make too much noise. “You aren’t writing any thrillers!”

“N— uh, I—” Dean stutters under her accusation. Behind her back, Cas’s holds his breath. “I do! Why would I—”

“Shush, enough of these little lies!” She cocks her head to the side, arms crossed on her chest. “You are writing a ghost story!”

A relieved chuckle escapes Dean’s lips. “You got me, Joanie. You got me. Nothing like a good ol’ horror, huh?”

Judging by Cas’s face, he’s just lost at least two years of his expected lifespan. His quick movements as he cleans their workstation say there’s nothing he wants more than to be away from here. Far from the people whose faces he has to lie to without blinking. Dean knows something about that.

 

By the time they leave the library, the sun is hanging low over the horizon. They scurry down the street, to get to Dana’s, to Baby, to Alicia’s, before it sets. Jack’s ghosts won’t be waiting for them, all too eager to jump out as soon as the last of sunshine sinks into the ocean, as ghosts tend to do.

“So, you’re a bard now, huh?” Dean will never let him live that one down. He’d never take Cas for an incredible storyteller, but he sure would love to listen to a few tales in that deep timbre of his.

“Dean—” Cas warns him, speeding up nearly to jog.

Dean matches his pace with ease. “You tell like, what, Apocalyptic bedtime stories or something?”

Cas turns his eyes heavenward. “I didn’t get that far yet.”

“Oh, alright, so you’re going chronologically,” Dean adds, but this time Cas ignores him completely. “You know, it would probably go much smoother if you introduced me as you journalist acquaintance,” he advises. The emphasis on the last word’s so strong it remains in the air between them long after Dean is done talking. But Dean seems to be the only one who feels it. Cas just rushes on.

“If I did, you’d have to later write and publish the article somewhere,” he explains. He’s got it all well thought out, hasn’t he? “With a book, it will take longer. And you could just fail to write it, altogether.”

But something there doesn’t sit well with Dean. He’s used the journalist cover a few dozens if not hundreds of times in his prosperous hunting career. He doesn’t recollect any publication history going along with it.

“What why would I have to—?” And then it dawns on him. “Oh. You— you’re staying here.” That little detail is never a part of Dean’s cover. For Dean’s there’s never been anything other than moving on.

“That is the plan,” Cas confirms, evenly. They spill on the parking lot, reach the Impala at last. Cas walks over to the passenger door, one hand pressed to the roof, he waits for Dean to open. “What else would I do?”

The question hangs there, bare between them, there’s no hiding of it. And Dean doesn’t have the answer they both want to hear.

Dean opens the door, lifts his shoulders in what’s supposed to look like a shrug. “I guess it’s as good a place as any,” he says and dives into the car.

He can’t reach fast enough to the radio, before the music blasts inside, Cas voice still reaches him.

“Yeah, just as good as any.”


	4. Friend of a Friend

Alicia’s driveway is a well-worn patch of grass with two ruts of bared, dry soil. Her house is a single-level square with a dark rooftop and preened vegetable garden in the front. Cas leads to the door along the cracked pavement, he knocks on the door in some semi-elaborate rhythm.

He doesn’t let his fist down, runs the fingers through his hair, combing the damp strands off his forehead. When his hand finally slips into the pocket, it doesn’t stay there for long. He drums on the door once again. This time his lips count the time when Alicia doesn’t come out.

“Alicia! It’s me!” he calls, pressing the tip of his nose to the door, knuckles still thrumming against the wood.

“Try the doorbell?” Dean offers.

“It’s disconnected.” Cas shifts away from the door. The stare he sends Dean is lined with worry. “It kept going off at night.”

Dean presses the handle, without much of a hope. Cas reaches to the pocket of his jeans, pulls a silver piece of metal out. Dean narrows his eyes at the object—a key. It fits perfectly into the lock, turns smoothly. Cas sprints inside before Dean’s brain is done processing what it just witnessed.

“Alicia?”

The entrance leads straight to a pastel-painted living room, only big enough to fit a set of armchairs and a sofa. There’s no signs of struggle, not a fresh one, at least. There are things missing, like the pictures on the walls that left only the line of nails, the empty mirror frame, taken off its place above the fireplace, now sitting beside its cold, dead insides. But there are no shards of glass covering the floor, not ripped up pages of the magazines, no ripped of petals of the orchid sitting on the rustic table.

Most out of place seem the lights, the half a dozen light bulbs bringing out every corner of the room, though the sun still seeps in through the windows.

“Harry?” a voice, a soothing calm against Cas’s distress, comes from the corridor. “I’ll be there in a sec!”

Cas doesn’t relax until a tall figure follows her own voice into the living room. She must be around Dean’s age, possibly younger, though with the puffed circles under her eyes, it’s hard to tell. And then she smiles at Cas, the grin he must have learned from her.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says, wrapping her thin sweater tighter around her chest.

She’s so lost in the middle of her own living room, eyes glazing over the bright lit corners, expecting a ghost jumping out at any moment. Dean has seen this look too many times, on the faces of every haunted family he’s ever tried to save.

At last her eyes find him. “You must be Dean, Harry told me a lot about you.” She stretches her hand out to him. “Alicia.”

“Nice to meet you,” he greets her. Her grip is strong, but her palm is cold. On its top, there’s an ugly bruise decorating her dark skin. “He did?”

She withdraws, back to her place near Cas, she tugs at the hem of her sleeve.

“He told me about that ghost you helped him with in South Dakota,” she says. Dean considers her words, but the story doesn’t even ring a bell. “And that you’re the best at what you do.”

That’s more like it. “That I am,” he boasts and winks at the woman.

Cas’s fingers graze Alicia’s arm to get her attention. He tips his head at the lights. “Has it appeared when I was gone?”

“Oh, no, no.” She lets out a little, embarrassed chuckle. “I just got a little antsy sitting here alone.”

“Understandable,” Dean assures the poor woman. “Don’t worry, the thing is as good as gone. Just tell me everything.”

She nods and invites them to sit down. She and Cas take the sofa, barely any space between them. That’s for maximum sense of security, of course. Dean opts for the opposite armchair.

“Oh, where’s my head,” she blurts as soon as they sink into their cozy spots. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“No, it’s fine, I’m good.” Dean waves a hand. “Just relax and tell us about the ghost.”

Another salve of laughter escapes Alicia’s mouth, this time it hits the hysterical undertones. “I’m sorry but this—this is an oxymoron.”

She hides her face in her palms, takes in a few shaky breaths.

Cas is there, right beside her. His palm on her shoulder, his thumb rubs soothing circles into her skin. It works; with time, the tension fades away from her body, he chest resumes its regular rhythm. That’s how Cas’s touch works, isn’t it? Even if it’s no longer angelic? There’s something about the way Cas’s fingers burn through layers of clothes, how they seem to cradle you whole. The exact weight of his palm, the exact shape, remain vivid in Dean’s muscle memory.

Seeing that palm misplaced now—Dean has to turn his eyes away.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Alicia’s head pops up, held high again, relative calm returned to her face—”I still have a hard time accepting the whole ‘ghosts are real’ thing.”

“Life-altering, isn’t it?” Dean says as if he had any idea about that. He pinches the screen of his phone to zoom in on the dead guy’s face and hands it to Alicia. “If this what the ghost looks like?”

They still need a one hundred on that, digging out and burning the wrong body would hurt not only Dean’s spine but his pride as well.

Alicia’s head comes bobbing up and down rapidly, her fingers start to play nervously with the tips of the braids falling down her shoulder. “Yes, it’s him, definitely. It’s paler and all twisted, but it’s him.” She glances at the window, teeth bite into her lower lip as if they tried to chew it off.

“This is good, Alicia,” Dean says in the same moment Cas assures her there’s still plenty of time. “It should go easy from here.”

“Why is he doing this?” she asks, doing her best to remain calm but failing. “I didn’t do anything to him!”

“None of this is your fault.” Cas throws his arm around her in a half-embrace. With his calming, gravely voice he retells her all that they’ve found out in the library.

He’s gone such a long way from that guy in Purgatory who’d rather clench his fists than reciprocate a hug. From the guy who’d speak in bible verses, in half-sentences over the phone lines. Were those few weeks really all it took for him to learn how to comfort, how to laugh, how to be human? Or was it the distance?

Alicia raises an eyebrow at Robert Johnson’s picture. “So this thing thinks I’m a white, mustachioed dude?”

Dean doesn’t try to hold back a chuckle. “Yeah, ghosts get a little confused sometimes. All he knows is that he hates the owner of this place, but doesn’t realize the owner has changed.”

“That kinda sucks for him,” she decides giving Dean back his phone. “Being angry at the wrong person all this time.” She pauses, hanging the words in silence. If only the ghosts could hear them, really hear them, it would all go down much smoother. “So what are you going to do with it?”

“Dig out his grave and burn his bones,” Dean answers, keeping his tone a bit too casual.

“Oh.” She’s doing a sloppy job of not looking shocked and appalled, but that washes away, exchanged for a concerned crease between her eyebrows. “Is it safe?”

“Frankly? It depends,” Dean admits, foregoing any pointless promises. “Do you have someone who could take you in tonight?”

Alicia nods. “A friend, on the other side of the town. I’ve been staying with her from time to time when it all got too much and I was desperate for sleep. But this is my home and I can’t just give it up and leave on exile.”

“You won’t have to,” Cas steals the words straight from Dean’s mouth.

“Take whatever you need and we’ll drop you off,” Dean says as he gets off the armchair. “And maybe safeguard any important items you don’t want broken, these things can get messy.”

Alicia chuckles bitterly. “It already broke pretty much all important items I had.” She points to the wall behind Dean’s back.

He hadn’t noticed it before, the freshly filled indents and holes in the wall, the white standing out on the soft yellow. That explains the pictureless nails, the mirrorless frame, the empty shelves. Sort of.

Dean steps forward to get closer to the woman, level with her eyes. “By morning the sucker will be gone,” he says firmly. “You’ve got our word.”

“Your—?” She turns to Cas, uncertain.

Dean can see it on Cas’s face, the withdrawing: his mouth opening to protest, eyes telling Dean to shut up. But Dean speaks before he can say a thing.

“Yeah, Harry’s coming too. I’m gonna need someone to dig that grave.”

 

She wraps her arms around his neck. He pulls her in with his hand on the small of her back. With her chin on his shoulder, she murmurs a few words to his ear. They break away. Lifting her bag, she turns towards Dean, waves at him from the driveway of her friend’s house. He’s not sure if she sees him from the inside of the car in this dark a night, but he waves back.

“She’s nice,” he decides, as Cas slips into the passenger seat.

“She is,” Cas agrees, corners of his lips drift up for a brief moment before falling. “She didn’t deserve this.”

“She didn’t,” Dean agrees. They seldom do. He fires up the engine. “It’ll be all over soon.”

Cas nods and relaxes into the seat.

They drive in silence through the quiet streets, except for Cas’s occasional instructions which turn to take to get to the cemetery. High above them, dark clouds begin to gather, threatening with a downpour. Great, because that’s exactly what Dean needs, digging holes in mud, setting soaked matches aflame. Hopefully, they’ll get a few hours to get their job done.

“So how long have you two—?” Dean cuts off to let Cas fill in the blank.

Cas turns at him, expectantly, his piercing stare Dean can feel on his face without glancing away from the road. There’s no guarantee Cas will bother answering. The Cas from five hours ago would not even grace him with a look. Three cheers for progress.

“Known each other?” Cas guesses, at last, when Dean doesn’t provide any hints. “She was the first person I met, right after I arrived here. She got me a job and a place to sleep.”

“Hm.” Dean pouts, twisting the steering wheel to the left. “So how come you—?” he starts and cuts off. It’s not the best possible question, not after what he witnessed in the archives.

It’s too late, of course. “Could you speak in full sentences?”

Dean snorts. “Alright, I’m not saying there’s anyone at fault here, but how does someone not notice the house is haunted?”

Cas considers his question for a moment.

“Humans seem to have this counterintuitive mechanism that makes them try to rationalize things like weird noises, objects falling off the shelves until they get so bad they can’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that,” Dean interrupts him. This is not about humans, not ones that don’t know better. “But Alicia said she hasn’t slept in weeks. It would shake the bed, smash things against the wall, can’t sleep through that. How did you?”

“How did I wh— oh.” The understanding dawns on Cas before he can finish the question. A brief chuckle escapes his lips. “I didn’t, I heard it. The last three nights that I stayed with her to keep her safe.”

Now it’s Dean that needs a moment. “So you don’t live with her? You’ve got her key and—”

“She had a spare so it was more comfortable that way,” Cas says like it’s the most obvious solution. And it is.

“Makes sense,” Dean decides and shuts his mouth not to make an even bigger idiot of himself.

One last turn and the yellow lights appear down the hill ahead, so sparse the sky above them could be their reflection. It’s still pretty early, but they’ve gotta hope no one decided a walk among the graves is a perfect way to spend the evening.

Dean parks at the end of the road, among the trees. His car sitting at the cemetery gate is a sight that has been printed in newspapers on various occasions, so he’s learned better by now. Cas remains in his seat when Dean gets out of the car. He puts two shotguns filled with rock salt into the duffel bag, adds a tube of salt, a can of fuel, a flashlight, the whole ghost hunter starter pack He feels his pocket for a box of matches, grabs two shovels for him and Cas.

He knocks on the window on the passenger’s side. He waves at Cas to get out of the car, but Cas still doesn’t move, except for the head that’s shaking in refusal.

“Let me get the door for you, princess,” he grumbles, shifting all both shovels into one hand, and pulls the handle. “Come on.”

Cas folds hands on his lap. “I’ll watch the car.”

Now, that’s the dumbest excuse not to dig Dean has ever heard. He doesn’t feel like laughing, though. There’s something in Cas’s tone that reminds him of a completely different Cas.

“The car doesn’t need to be watched, it’s got locks for a reason,” Dean explains, fixing the bag on his shoulder. “We don’t have time for this, lazy butt.”

“I’m not going to dig the grave,” Cas announces in a firm voice, the don’t argue with me type.

Dean can’t not argue, of course. “What do you mean you’re not going to dig the grave?”

“Exactly that.”

“Listen,” Dean sets the shovels aside, slowly losing his patience. “I know it’s the suckiest part and I’m not thrilled about it either, but you wanna be a hunter, you gonna have to pull some muscles.”

Cas shakes his head, chuckling at something that Dean doesn’t see.

“I don’t want to be a hunter,” he explains.

Right, of course, he doesn’t. He’d be down in the trenches by now if he did. “Okay, that I figured,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re a librarian. But you did all this research, find the ghosty, found the grave. You won’t tell me you dragged me all the way from Kansas to dig a grave for you.”

“I didn’t do any of that, Dean,” says as if today was some kind of Rashomon story. “You carried out the whole hunt. I merely helped out. As a civilian,” he adds with emphasis.

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing up and down as he chews on Cas’s word.

“Banging job so far,” he decides, grabbing one shovel and sticking it out for Cas to grab, “let’s do some more.”

Cas doesn’t grab it, though he shifts in the seat to face Dean better, as if Dean could even properly see his face in the shadow.

“I can’t dig the grave, Dean,” he enunciates each word so Dean doesn’t miss the meaning.

Dean sighs, keeping calm. “Why? Is it your back or something?”

“My back is fine,” Cas assures. “It’s not about my physicality. It’s where we are. You know how I make a living: I work with children, I tutor and babysit sometimes. Who do you think will let me take care of their toddler if someone sees me digging a grave and burning bones?”

Dean stands unmoving for a few seconds, staring at the dark shape of Cas’s face and trying to process the revelation. So it’s the social status Cas is worried about, of all things. The man who used to spill the ridiculous truth about the angels and demons left and right, slayed people in the daylight as a self-proclaimed god, couldn’t even set his voicemail message right and never gave a damn. Such an upstanding citizen all of a sudden, isn’t he?

“Wait, you babysit?” Dean asks like that’s the most important news he could get from that whole speech. A grave digger nanny is definitely the worse option here than an ex-angel who’s only been a human for four months. “Okay, I see how that might be a problem,” he says before Cas can chime in with explanations. “But there’s a reason I don’t work solo, man. You could have warned me.”

“I told you to bring Sam with you.”

“And I told you he is—”

“Weak,” Cas finished for him. He’s heard that exact tunes enough times. “I know. I’m sorry, I can’t go with you.”

Dean rubs his face and fixes his grip on the wooden handle. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll manage. It’ll take forever but I’ll manage.” He’s still got a little trek ahead, searching for the right grave and then the digging of course. He’s too old for that crap. “Throw that shovel in the trunk,” he tells Cas, walking away.

“Sure,” Cas calls behind him. “Be careful.”

Dean doesn’t stop, just looks back over his shoulder. “Not my first rodeo.”

 

 

Smashing your face against the tombstone is not fun. Being thrown a few feet by a ghost, who was supposed to sit tight and wait to be salted and burned, then smashing your face against that tombstone is even less fun. Dean managed to take the most of the hit on his shoulder, though it will not be grateful for it, but there’s still a mighty bruise to be expected to bloom all over the left side of his jaw.

“Tha’ all you got?” Dean shouts into the grass. The jaw’s not broken, that’s a good news.

As per usual, the attack happened so fast. Dean already got the salt down on the dead guy, sprinkled it generously with fuel too. He even got the match out. But that’s when they just love getting nasty when it’s this close to the eternal rest.

Dean digs his nails into the dirt and lifts himself up on the good hand. The next few days are gonna be a nightmare, with the whole world of pain coming, as if his poor, old bones needed more rattling.

The flashlight’s still on, its light seeps over the ground and the gaping hole in it. On its edge lies the matchbox, opened and gutted, with the matches spilled all around it. He just needs to get to them, strike just one on drop it into the open casket.

The only problem is the pale figure standing between the grave and Dean’s current position. There is no wide smile on his narrow face, there’s a twisted disgust on it, instead.

“Listen, pal,” Dean says, weighing his options. The guns are still in the bag lying a few feet to the left. Maybe he could reach it, if he’s fast enough and if Jack’s ghost doesn’t see his plan through. “This don’t have to get ugly.”

He just needs to distract him with his talking, that Dean is good at. He takes a step to the side, casual enough, not breaking eye contact with the ghost.

Jack’s head snaps to the bag, then back to Dean. He blinks out of the sight just to blink back right in front of him, his eyes burning with rage.

“Too late!” he roars, zapping Dean into the air with a wave of its hand.

A surge of pain lashes from Dean’s eye socket, a hot cascade of blood streams down his cheek. His palm shoots right to his eyes, fingers feel for the spheric shape of his eyeball. Still there, thank fuck.

“So this is how you wanna play it?” he calls, keeping on his armor of the badass attitude. “Let’s play! Come on!”

He’s not gonna get far this way, unless farther and farther from the gun is what he’s aiming for. Which it is not. This? This is exactly why hunting solo is never a good idea.

Dean gets back on his feet as quickly as his head lets him. Like a fucking chess master, the ghost put himself strategically, successfully cutting off Dean’s chances at getting either the gun or the matches.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, is all Dean can think. The ghost tilts his head, watching him like a sadistic bastard and Dean doesn’t have much choice but to stare at his twisted mug as it approaches. He takes a few steps back but he quickly hits a tree trunk.

A gun fires. Somewhere to the left. The bullet misses the ghost, but gets its attention. It’s Cas, his dark shape standing a few yards away works as a perfect bait. Jack goes after him, buys Dean time to get to the bag. He pulls out the shotgun and turns to find Cas with his weapon trained at the ghost. The guy fires. And misses again.

“Wow, you suck,” Dean mutters to himself as the ghost charges at Cas. “Hey, Jackie boy!”

It works, the ghost turns to him again, apparently not very threatened by Cas’s shooting skills. His eyes fall on the barrel of the gun then snap up to Dean’s face.

“You’re just like him!” Jack howls.

“And you’re just naughty,” Dean snap and shoots.

As soon as the salt bullet pierces through his ethereal shape, the ghost disappears.

“How’d you know I was in trouble?” Dean asks, bent down, grabbing a bunch of the scattered matches.

“The spot you parked in has a good view of the cemetery,” Cas says, dropping his gun into Dean’s bag. “It seemed that something was wrong.”

“Thanks, you were just in time.” He slips the matches back into the box and hands it out to Cas. “Will you do the honors?”

Cas glares at him, jaw clenched. Dean shakes the box encouragingly. They have no time for banter now, the ghost might reappear any second. Cas grunts in displeasure, but takes the box. After all, who could resist Dean’s goofy smile, adorning his bloodied face, stretched as wide as the hurting jaw lets him.

Cas strikes a match and throws it into the coffin in one move. He doesn’t even wait to see if the fire caught well. He pulls the hood on his head, turns on a heel of his boot, and walks away.


	5. Boys' Night In

“It’s over,” Cas says to Dean’s phone. The relief in Alicia’s voice reaches all the way to the sofa where Dean rests, compress on his shoulder, a blood-soaked towel pressed to his face. “No, spend the night at your friend’s, we’ll stay here just to be one hundred percent sure.”

There’s a drop in her enthusiasm at the words, even as Cas goes on explaining how that’s only a formality, how the ghost ended its existence in a show of sparks and moved on.

“Tell her the Winchesters offer two years of warranty,” Dean mumbles and laughs at his own joke.

Cas ignores him. The cut under his eye doesn’t; it reopens when he smiles too widely. Way to take away the last of world’s joy. Dean’s gonna have to do something about that. He tries to readjust on the sofa to reach for the first aid kit, but using his hurt hand to do it is the furthest possible thing from a bright idea. The moan that escapes his mouth earns him the briefest glance from Cas.

“I’ll tell you everything in the morning,” Cas promises to the phone, voice soft. “Sleep well.”

He ends the call, but doesn’t put the device down right away.

“You’re so gonna take all the credit, aren’t you?” Dean teases, making another, just a little less painful, attempt at reaching the box.

“Do you need help?” Cas walks over to Dean, not waiting for the answer.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Cas kneels on the rug, right next to Dean’s face. He drops the phone on the table and reaches for the red box.

“I don’t have any practice with first aid kit,” he warns, frankly. At least this one thing he admits without Dean having to pry it out of him, “you might need to guide me through it.”

“You see a white bottle there? Take it and pour it over a gause.”

Cas follows his instructions quietly, cleaning the wound with quick, gentle dabs and using his other hand for stability, rather than the comfort of the patient. It’s such a change from the man Dean witnessed earlier today, even from the angel whose fingers once grazed Dean’s mutilated face to make it whole.

“I think the cut needs to be closed,” Cas decides, diving back to the first aid kit.

“Yeah, there should be—”

“Got it,” Cas announces, lifting his pinched fingers. A sewing needle gleams silver between them. “I just need the—”

“Whoah, dude!” Dean shouts, withdrawing as far away from the torture tool as possible in his position. “If you think I’ll let you sew my face with this thing you are so, so wrong. I need this eye!”

“I’ll be careful,” Cas promises, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Because that’s enough to make Dean let a not-so-vaguely pissed at him guy with a sharp object and no surgical skills near his eyeball.

“Put this thing down right this moment or so help me!” Dean yells, squeezing both his eyes shut. His voice hits an ugly pitch, a little too high. An open palm flies up in between his face and the needle. He clears his throat. “Use the freaking strips!”

As soon as the last echo of Dean’s shout dies down, a low, raspy sound takes its place. It’s familiar in a way, but not completely, not like this. Not because of him. Cas is fucking chuckling. Which would be heartwarming if it wasn’t at Dean’s expense.

“You mean these?”

Dean risks opening his eyes. There’s a pack of butterfly bandages in Cas's palm where there used to be the needle. There’s also Cas’s grinning face hanging behind it.

“You asshole,” Dean blurts, pushing his head back into the pillow. “Didn’t know you had one of those.”

Cas squints. “Bandages? It’s your—”

“I meant sense of humor.”

Cas gives out the last huff of laughter and gets to work. There’s utter focus in the crease in his brow, his eyes, hanging low, right above Dean’s face, are fixed on the tips of his fingers that stretch Dean’s skin, bring it together. He holds his breath each time he puts the bandage strip in its place. When he lets it out, it envelopes Dean with its warmth.

When it ends, it’s all too soon.

“It should be good, now,” Cas says, closing the kit and setting it aside. “Get some rest.”

He gathers the bloody rags and Dean’s dirty clothes and leaves Dean alone with the dull aches, in a foreign living room. The lights remain on, so he can’t have gone for the night yet. Dean shuts his eyes, throws his feet over the armrest of the sofa. He should have asked for a painkiller, or a bottle of booze, at least. It would make falling asleep a little easier, as it usually does these days.

He doesn’t get to slip into a slumber yet when Cas returns. His beard is wet and so is his hair, mussed with a towel and curled at the ends. He’s still wearing that freaking hoodie, though the heating is on.

“I used up the hot water so you might have to wait,” he says, sitting on the armchair.

“‘Kay,” Dean mutters. Is Cas gonna watch him sleep or something? “Have you eaten today at all? I sure could eat a horse.”

“Yes, I’ve eaten,” Cas replies, near automatically, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie.

Dean makes an effort to turn his head just to raise his good eye’s eyebrow at the man. “Before I arrived?”

Cas nods, but the look on his face doesn’t seem so sure. “There should be some leftover pizza in the fridge,” he offers, jumping off the seat and disappearing into the kitchen before Dean can even answer.

Dean sits up and props his arm with pillows, while Cas heats the slices in the microwave. The smell reaches Dean’s nose and waters his mouth. He hasn’t eaten anything since the burger in the morning. His throat felt too tight after that to try and push down anything more.

Cas is mostly quiet, chewing on the crust of pizza with his knees brought up to his chest, his fingers all smeared with ketchup. His eyes are fixed on the TV, on some action movie Dean put on just to cover up the silence. The pizza is as good as a microwaved pizza can be.

They stay up watching the movie long past their late dinner. From Cas’s face, it’s hard to tell whether he enjoys it or just watches it to have an excuse to ignore Dean. The latter, probably, judging by his utter investment in the commercial breaks.

It would be so easy to remain this quiet and simple, turn off the TV as the credits roll, close eyes and drive off in the morning. Dean’s mouth isn’t a fan of the easy ways.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have even a little bit of fun,” he asks, when the same insurance add begins for the fifth time tonight.

Cas looks at him as if he just made him prove that two plus two is seven. “At what point?”

“You know, that moment during the research when you find what you’ve been looking for, the adrenaline when the ghost is looking you in the eyes and that awesome moment when you wave it goodbye and make it puff?”

Dean even managed to make research sound exciting, Sam would be proud. It’s all true, though. Hunting might not be the easiest lifestyle, nothing like a simple existence of a small town librarian, but it sure has its thrills.

“Do you mean the prolonged strain on the eyes or you getting almost killed?” mister Skeptic replies.

Dean snorts. “I didn’t almost get killed.”

“Or,” Cas continues, ignoring him, “do you mean me—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Dean waves a hand and shoots Cas a smirk. “To be honest, after I saw you shoot today, I wouldn’t let you go hunting anyway.”

“I saved your life,” Cas reminds him.

“Yeah,” Dean draws out the sound, “but if I were you I’d get your vision checked.”

Cas’s jaw clenches and relaxes “Hm, okay,” he mutters in a tone that isn’t okaying anything at all.

Dean shrugs. Trying to force an ophthalmologist on Cas probably wouldn’t bear great results. It’s the ex-angel thing, isn’t it? Must suck to get stuck in something so much smaller than him, just to find out this specific model’s flawed even in human standards.

“Hey, I’m just worried,” he says. “You know, eyes can be pretty useful—”

A burst of bitter laugh, verging on hysteria, doesn’t let Dean finish. Cas is bent forward, his face hidden in his hands, shoulder shaking.

“Ca—?”

“You’re worried?” Cas echoes his words right back at him, lined thickly with sarcasm. “Now you’re worried?”

The irony is not lost on Dean. His choice of words was not the most fortunate, but it was honest. Cas could read it off his face if he only looked at him. Instead, Cas wipes off his bitter smirk and gets up from his spot.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he says, and moves for the door.

“Cas, wait,” Dean calls, but that doesn’t stop him.

They say it’s unhealthy to go to bed angry, but it’s not Cas, nor his own health he’s worried about. His own conscience? That’s more like it. Or maybe he just wants to set one thing right, or try, because one small word can’t do much for a guy with a rap sheet like Dean’s.

“I’m sorry,” he says, from the bottom of his heart.

Cas stops, mid-step, fingers lingering on the light switch. He turns to Dean, his tall posture towers, menacing over Dean. He doesn’t say anything, only looks right into Dean’s eyes with his blues, and waits.

“For everything, I’m sorry, okay?,” Dean admits. “For kicking you out, for letting you down. I’m sorry.”

His chest doesn’t feel any lighter after he says it. It all just seems too little and too late.

Cas has the same opinion on it. For a few heartbeats, he’s looking for something, in Dean’s eyes, in his face, a crack maybe. Then he lets out a tired chuckle.

“I don’t care.” He shakes his head. His fingers flick the lights off and Dean remains alone in the darkness.

Dean hits his calf on the hard edge of the table, guaranteeing himself yet another purple souvenir. It doesn’t stop him, though. He finds his way to the switch and the door.

“Come on, Cas, don’t do that,” he calls after him, but Cas has already disappeared into Alicia’s bedroom

All Dean’s got left is banging on the door.

“Go away, Dean,” Cas shouts through the wood, but Dean doesn’t give up. He’s ready to taran it with his own shoulder if he has to.

“I’m gonna go get my picks,” he warns, pressing the handle, but the door gives way without them. “Oh,” Dean blurts, surprised.

The room is dark, but for the moonlight seeping in through the window on the opposite wall. Cas stand by the bed, with his back to Dean, but with the hoodie off, at last, Dean’s not completely sure it’s Cas. He seems so narrow.

“This isn’t Fort Knox,” he informs him and Dean, despite all, can’t help a smile.

“Talk to me, Cas,” he pleads, not moving a step from the door, his hand searches for the switch.

Cas turns around and sits down on the edge of the bed. He rolls his shoulders in, making himself even smaller.

Dean flicks the light on. He has to make sure.

It’s Cas, the same that he’s just watched a movie with. But he’s so much thinner. It might be an illusion, Dean’s so used to seeing him in clothes that are a few sizes too big for his frame, like the trenchcoat and the hoodie. But Dean’s hand still remembers the sturdy canvas of his muscles, as he painted on it with blood and skin sliced open. There’s now gone and his skin stretches flat against his ribcage, the arches of the lowest bones pronounced even under his thin, gray shirt.

Cas eyes follow Dean’s thorough stare and he puffs his chest, spreads his arms wide in a mock presentation. There’s only a cheery “ta-da!” missing. So this is where the thickness of his early Christmas cheer came in. Hiding.

“Turns out I’m crap at being human,” Cas explains, before Dean can ask, even though he didn’t plan to. “So many things to remember about.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him. “What like eating?”

The embarrassed look on Cas’s face all but confirms it.

“Dude, that’s literally the best thing about being human,” Dean says, sitting on the soft covers right beside him. He musters a smile and nudges Cas with his elbow. “Better than the ugly sweater.”

Cas lets out a single huff of humorless laugh, but when it dies, his head hangs low.

“This is why it is so hard to be around you, Dean.”

Those are not the words Dean expected. He’s not the one who’s been giving him a silent treatment, broken with episodes of lame humor.

“I’m the easiest guy to be around you’ll find,” Dean jokes, hoping to bring back the old, semi-bearable atmosphere.

Cas throws his head back, growls in frustration. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

His teeth biting the lower lip, his palms rubbing against his thighs say he’s not very eager to explain it to Dean and Dean can’t blame him.

“You hurt me, Dean,” he confesses, at last, as if Dean’s not painfully aware of that. “And then you come here and act like nothing happened and I—I just don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to behave, what to feel not to get myself hurt even further.”

Dean’s jaw slacks in its hinges. He nods, buying himself time to process his words. He really was a complete jackass all this time, wasn’t he? But that’s just how he works, if he pretends everything’s fine, he’ll be fine. Apparently, that instruction is not in a universal manual.

“Cas, I—” he begins, unsure of what his next words would be. Another apology, probably. What else can he say?

Cas clenches his jaw, losing the resigned calm from his demeanor. “And you know what’s the ‘funniest’?” he asks, with his fingers hooked making in the airquotes. “That you haven’t apologized until now. Not once.” He snorts. “Not even for being late to our appointment.”

Dean’s thoughts cling onto the accusation thrown at him. He replays the meeting in the diner in his head, second after second, word after word. He couldn’t even bother to throw in an offhand sorry, too occupied with faking a smile.

“I’m sorry,” mutters, like there’s a broken record inside him and only now it remembered to make a sound. “I know it’s late but I’m sorry, I— You’ve no idea how much I wanted—”

Cas moves become ragged as he slips off the bed, like there’s a storm penting up inside him, it threatens to blow in Dean’s face.

“You wanted what?” Cas snaps, his fingers turn white where they're wrapped around the back of a chair. “To be there for me? Is that what you wanted?” A bitter laugh flees his lips. “Well, you weren’t. Though I wanted it, too.”

“I’m here now,” Dean offers, pointlessly, moving closer to Cas.

“Too late.” Cas shrugs. “I don’t need you now.”

Of course, he doesn’t. It was just easier that way. The hunt is what Dean’s here for, Dean knew that from the start. Why did he ever let himself forget that part? It could have been anyone else, Cas could have called any hunter, there’s plenty of them in New England.

“I know you don’t,” Dean admits. “You’re doing so great. It’s—it’s great.”

That bitter laugh again, hitting too close to a fallen Cas Dean once knew.

“Yeah, I’m amazing now,” he says but he doesn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice. “I have a roof over my head and bed now and I even manage to fall asleep from time to time.”

“Nightmares?” Dean risks asking, as if that wasn’t a given.

“Dreams,” Cas corrects. “They’re something else when they’re in your own head. The ache is something else too, you know? When you are just…useless and helpless. A liability.”

Cas takes in a ragged breath, but his lungs forgot how to make a use of it anyway. “You’re not—”

“And when the angels captured me, that— sucked.”

“Angels?” Dean echoes numbly as his heart stops. There weren’t supposed to be angels. Cas said there weren’t any, why did he fucking hide that?

Cas lifts the bottom of his shirt to reveal the fresh, long scars stretching across his stomach. Dean's blood boils, as the image of a defenseless, human Cas shackled by his wrists, his brand new skin snapping open in a blade's wake, flashes before his eyes. And he had no one to slap the butterfly bandages on his wounds.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean can’t keep his voice calm anymore.

This isn’t fair, this wasn’t the deal. And then something snaps in him, the twist of Cas’s lips, the sneering tone. Dean steps towards the man, finger lifted in accusation.

“No, you don’t get to pin that all on me,” he protests. He knows where his fault lies, he knows where it doesn’t. “I asked you how you were, every single time you called. And every time I heard you were fine. Do you think I wouldn’t drop everything and come running if you only said a word? Haven't I?”

Cas remains quiet, like he’s looking for the arguments that aren’t coming.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t let you stay in the Bunker, I really am,” Dean continues, relieved that he finally gets to say it out loud, even if it doesn’t absolve him. “And I told you I had no other choice. Don’t you think for a second I wouldn’t throw you a welcome party if I did. My choice was your wellbeing or Sam’s life. It seemed pretty simple.”

Another step and he’s in Cas’s personal bubble. Cas doesn’t move.

“I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be pissed at me, because you do. But don’t tell me I’m lying when I say that I wish I could have been there for you.”

It’s terrible and cathartic at the same, to slice himself open and shout out all that’s been eating him from the inside for weeks. But now that every grief of his is spilled out, all he wants to do is turn around and run away, jump into the Impala and drive until he runs out of West.

He doesn’t, though, he remains where he stands, so close to Cas, their noses nearly touch. It’s Cas’s turn now and he’s bracing himself for the counterstrike.

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but before any words come out, the door behind Dean slams shut.

“Well, fuck,” Dean yelps, jumping away and nearly falling over Cas’s feet.

Cas rushes to the door, grabs the handle and yanks the door. It doesn’t budge. “Well, fuck, indeed.”

 

It takes a lot of pulling, swearing and begging for the door to pry open, but they do, at last. They come loose so suddenly, Dean nearly dislodges his other shoulder. In the living room, there’s a full-blown game of grab and throw going on, with the few items that were left after the last few months of haunting. A haunted object it is, then, right off the top twenty of Dean’s least favorite things.

“Cover me,” Dean calls to Cas, who readjusts his hold on the baseball bat.

They make their way for Dean’s cell phone, or its last position, at least. They get to the table relatively unscathed if Dean doesn’t count the potted orchid that cut him down in its flight across the room. Dean finds the phone on the carpet by the table, by some miracle, it’s still whole, not even the screen is cracked.

Occupied with the perfect state of the device, he nearly gets decapitated by the empty mirror frame, but Cas pulls him down the last moment, as he dives behind the sofa. That’s the second time today, hopefully, Cas isn’t keeping the score.

“Why can’t ghosts just tell us what they want?” Dean grumbles, opening the call history. He scrolls down and back up, but the only numbers he finds there are Cas’s payphones and Sam’s cell. “Why did you—?” he begins, but decides it’s not the right moment. The question isn’t worth it anyway. “I need Alicia’s number.”

He punches in the number Cas dictates him from the memory and presses dial. It takes a few signals for the woman to pick up.

“Did something happen?” Alicia’s voice sounds spooked, and rightfully. The midnight has just passed, not the best time for a casual chat.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation,” he shouts over the noise of pots and pans beginning their flight across the living room. “I need you to remember if you changed anything in the house right before the ghost appeared. Any renovations, moving furniture. Even pushing some old junk around in the attic.”

It doesn’t take her long to remember, but Dean misses her words as he ducks from the bat that just fled Cas’s grip.

“I don't know about moving things but I carpeted the floor in May,” she repeats. “Could that be it?”

Dean risks peeking over the back of the sofa, eyes turned to the wall covered in white patches. If the thing wants something uncovered so badly, burying it deeper under extra layers seems like quite a wake up call.

“Hopefully, thanks.” Dean ends the call and pockets the phone.

Cas dodges another flying debris and leans closer. “What did you find out?”

Dean shakes his head/ “That we’re fucking morons,” he informs him, but then corrects. “That I’m a moron.”

He fills Cas in on the carpeting newsflash.

“You think it’s under the floor?”

“Yeah, right there,” Dean points. “Why tell us in words when it can just throw things at it.”

The plan is simple. Grab a knife, de-carpet the floor, find the object. It’s definitely not as simple in reality when the piece of the floor in question is the bullseye of the ghost’s target practice.

But then, this is why Dean doesn’t hunt solo.

Grabbing the knife on the way poses no problems, there are plenty knives there that traveled here from the kitchen.

“You’ll do it quicker with two good arms,” he tells Cas, handing him the blade. “If that’s fine with you.”

Cas takes the knife without protest. “What about the—” he points to the identified flying objects.

“Don’t worry,” Dean replies, locating the metal frame that nearly decapitated him before, but now is lying discarded on the floor. Should be durable enough. “I’ll be your Captain.”

 

It’s a notebook, thick and worn out. That’s all they find under the floor. As soon as Cas grabs it and pulls it out of the hole, the room goes oddly quiet. It’s not over yet, of course. Just the calm before the storm.

“Paper, good,” Dean comments, taking the volume from Cas.

He pats his pockets, but he’s got no luck, the matchbox isn’t there.

“The hoodie,” Cas reminds him. “I put it into the pocket at the cemetery.”

He gets off his knees and shoots across the room, before the other man can react. Dean strengthens his grip on the notebook. The ghost can pop up any minute, reach out his sticky palms for the one object that can kill him for good. He doesn't plan on losing it until Cas comes back bearing fire.

But Cas won’t bear fire—the door to the bedroom shut close once again.

“Awesome,” Dean murmurs, looking for an alternative.

The fireplace is the sort of beautiful relic that still doesn't use gas to make fire. Which is probably why it hasn't been used in ages. The kitchen, however, must have something flammable in it.

Dean doesn’t even get to get up on his feet. A mighty roar resounds in the room.

“Don’t you dare burn it!”

With the voice, the ghost appears right before him, blocking any and every way out.

“Are we really gonna do this again?” Dean sighs, wrapping the good arm around the notebook.

“Your friend won’t help you this time,” the ghost says, not as loud this time, the voice nearing human. “Why would he? You’re just like him!”

“Is that a riddle?” It's the same phrase. Just like who? This time, Dean doesn’t have the gun on him so it can't mean the shooter. And he’s nothing like Cas, if today taught him anything. “What does that mean?”

“Robert.” Jack’s face twists with disgust as he speaks the name. “Fucking liar.”

Dean’s eyebrows snap together. Now, this sounds like the story goes a little different than he’s heard it.

“Murderer, I’d get. But liar?” Dean wanted a talking ghost, so here he goes. “Can you elaborate?”

“Open it,” Jack orders and Dean doesn’t really have much choice but to obey. On the other side of the house, Cas still struggles with the door and shouts Dean’s name.

Dean opens the notebook, as told. All he finds in it is a whole lot of words. Each page is covered with handwriting. It’s not even in a fancy calligraphy, the letters are barely legible. He catches pieces of descriptions, dialogues.

“A book? Seriously?” He expected something a little more dramatic than a freaking manuscript. “Tell me it’s like a, true Necronomicon or something.”

“Imagine you have a friend who you trust who betrays you,” Jack explains, hitting a little close to home. And then he hits harder. “I know your friend can relate.”

Ghosts and their fucking pseudo-omniscience.

“Listen, dude,” Dean says, closing the would-be-book. “You got beef with your friend, take it to him. Let me guess: you wrote the book together, he went behind your back and struck a deal with some major publishing house and cut you out. Am I getting somewhere?”

Jack bares his teeth, throws thunders from his eyes, threatens to turn into a ghastly nuke. “You have no idea what it feels like!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Prometheus! When’s that fire coming?” he calls to Cas. He’s pretty sure he hears a “not funny” grumbled in an answer.

The deathly glare of the ghost keeps drilling into Dean, Cas keeps being stuck. And the whole situation is getting a little annoying.

“That's enough. Unlike you and your buddy who decided to solve it like good little robbers and shooters do, I and Cas were actually getting somewhere before you interrupted us, so—” Dean grabs a handful of pages into his fists, pulls until the paper moans dangerously.

“No, stop!” Jack cries, knowing even with his posthumous speed he won't beat Dean to it. “Alright, you win.”

A loud click comes from the direction of the bedroom, the door opens. Cas rushes into the room with the matchbox in his hand.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean replies, then turns to the ghost, never letting his hold off the precious pages. “So? What are we gonna do about this?”

 

Dean sets the scribbled notebook on the table.

“Well, according to my experience, he’s really moved on,” he assures Alicia, who’s been waiting impatiently for any news. “All he wanted was for people to know Robert was a thief and Jack just wanted to get back what was his. So, now that that's done, he went away.”

The answer doesn't satisfy the woman. “But how can I be sure he won’t come back if you didn’t burn the book?”

Dean scratches the back of his head. “I’ll say it like this: if you decide you’ll feel safer burning the book, you can do it. Harry will help,” he says, glancing at Cas for any signs of protest, but there are none. “But as far as I’m concerned, there’s no need.”

Alicia sounds unsure, but she promises to think it through over the night and wishes him good dreams.

Dreams, yeah, those would be nice. It’s freaking late and the last few nights on the road he didn’t get to sleep much either. But for now he’s got much important things on his mind. Sleep can wait.

“So you really aren’t going to burn this?” Cas asks when Dean slips on the sofa next to him.

"I'll tell you I'm kinda curious what kind of masterpiece it is that brought me here," he jokes, but the smile quickly fall off his face. “Besides I told the guy I wouldn’t. I’ve done my share of lying lately, I could be honest at least once,” he admits. “Well, twice,” he corrects, shifting around to face Cas. He hangs his head low, thinking of the best way to confess everything, when really, there is no good way. But it's time, way past, in fact. “Bear with me, because I’m gonna tell you everything.”

Cas nods and prepares himself for whatever might come out of Dean's mouth. Can he really be ready for something like this? Will he understand?

Dean takes a deep breath and begins the story.

"Right after the Fall, when Sam was dying in a hospital, I asked you a question. About Ezekiel..."

 


End file.
